So, I’m back in the office after a busy month of training weeks and traveling.
Now everyone is out on vacation.
I hate this job. So, much that I’m going to do a phone interview in a couple of minutes.
I have a load of work to do, deadlines and no motivation.
I’m trapped in hell.
I wasn’t really going to discuss it, but I did something last week – that really upset me. I was having an incredibly crap Wednesday – the training week, the director I was dealing with, working long hours, etc. I finally get off of work, it’s blazing humid outside, and I realize I need gas to make it home. Just another irritation - $3.27/gal, and I have a 15 gal tank, dangit. There goes another $50.
So, there I am - at the gas station (Arco @ Trask & Brookhurst) and a truck full of day-laborers pulls up next to me. Not that I’m hot or anything, but the cat-calls start, making me more edgy. Then I turn around and see a guy pumping MY gas into HIS car! At Arco, there’s a communal pay station, and you punch in the pump you want to use. He straight starting pumping MY gas into HIS car! So, I confront him by saying, “Excuse me! I paid for that gas!! You’re stealing my gas!” He looks at me funny and says, “No. I paid for this.” And I start yelling, “You’re stealing my gas! I paid for the gas!” and he looks at me and says, “No speaka English.” Fuming, I completely lose it, take a step back, and punch him, square on the jaw. He falls backward, and the station attendant comes running out of the booth. He says that he was watching everything and tells the guy to either pay for the gas he took from me, or he’s going to call the cops and have him arrested for stealing gas. The old Asian guy flips out, speaks perfect English and start yelling, “She hit me, she punched me. I want to have her arrested for assault!” My jaw drops, and the attendant says, “No way man! You provoked her! She would’ve never hit if you didn’t steal her gas in the first place!” He fishes out $10 from his pocket, throws it a guy, takes a pic of my car with his car phone, and speeds off. The gas attendant gets me a pack of ice for my hand and bottle of water to drink and apologized profusely for not coming out sooner. He took a pic of the guy’s car as he took off.
I called C, panicked and crying – afraid that I was going to get in trouble for hitting the guy. Moreover, I was more freaked out that my anger had taken itself to the physical level and that I actually hit someone. C had assured me that everything was going to be ok, he was proud of me and that there would be NO way any cop would side with the other guy, considering I decked the guy in pink sweater, black skirt and heels. I was more freaked out that I lost control – getting that aggressive hadn’t happened since high school (I was defending my sister from a guy who was bullying her by punching him in the stomach). I mean, c’mon – the gas-stealing guy was my dad’s age, drove a Volvo. I couldn’t believe he faked not knowing English, and had the damn money in his pocket. C justified it as I’m so Type A, that losing control over my emotions like that has to be scary.
